He poets himself just fine I know
but all the same when I read his essay just now it became in
me a lyric swing-verse trailing over the threshold
out the back door down
the steps into the gardens where I let my feet take over where my spirit alight.
My heart admits it’s tired of why
so many things show their beauty
when we go quiet.
To fall below the world
while still living
makes us remember that the truth that waits under our opinions
is our home.
When will the fugitive we hide inside accept that our self worth was there all along?
What sort of rain
will make the seed inside our head grow?